Removing the Variable
by CelticKnot12
Summary: Australia. The land of beautiful nature, wondrous creatures... and obsessed assassins. MacGyver heads into the wilderness and encounters someone that he didn't expect-or want-to meet again. But MacGyver's life isn't the only one on the line...
1. Chapter 1

I knocked on the door of Pete's office and a blasting sneeze answered me. Rolling my eyes, I opened the door. Pete Thornton was sitting at his desk with a wad of wrinkled up tissues in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. He looked up at me with watery, red eyes before turning away to bark a cough against his sleeve.

"Oh, Pete, for crying out loud, just take the day off!"

Pete moved his hand from his coffee mug to his forehead. "Why would I do that? I'm not sick." I raised my eyebrows at him as he turned to cough up a lung or two.

"Of course you aren't." I went and sat on the edge of his desk, avoiding the trashcan that contained 160 used Puffs. Box number two on his desk was most likely stolen from Helen, his secretary. "Come on, Pete. You're always telling me to go home when I catch the flu. Now I'm telling you: go home."

"This isn't the flu." He moaned slightly as he leaned back in his chair. "I had the shot. That's what happens. You get the shot and you don't get the flu."

"You know those flu shots don't always work." I had to squeeze my next words in between Pete's rapid fire of sneezes. "Now I...really think...you should go...home!...Bless you."

"Thanks." Pete sniffed and then moaned before finally nodding. "I think you're right, Mac. I'll go home, get some sleep, and I'll be back at my desk by tomorrow, right as rain."

Pete coughed heavily for a few moments. When he finally caught his breath, he sheepishly looked at me. "Well...maybe the day after..."

I smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Hope you get better soon, Pete. Want me to drive you home?"

"No, no, I'll make it fine." He groaned, grabbing his jacket as he stood and walked to the door, slightly bent at the waist. "I'll call you later, MacGyver."

He left his office, closing the door behind him. Even through the thick door, I could hear his sneeze. I reached for the tissue box and held it out without a word as Pete opened the door again. He took the box with a small smile and nodded once more.

I shook my head and chuckled slightly as I shoved off the desk and walked out the door.

Pete was talking to Helen, who nodded with understanding. I walked up to her as Pete left, a grimace of sympathy on my face.

"Boy, that's a bad case of the flu." She shook her head slightly, as if questioning Pete's decision to even come in that morning.

Nodding, I watched him exit through the door before turning to face Helen. I opened my mouth to speak, but a buzzing sound came from the phone, cutting me off. Holding up her finger in a signal for me to wait, she picked it up, giving monosyllabic answers in reply to whatever the person on the other side of the phone was asking.

"Yes... I know... Yeah, it was... He did? You're kidding! What did... Oh, I see. So what did she say? ... Really?" She paused for a minute. "Sure, no problem." For a minute she didn't speak and I just watched her sitting in her chair, her brow furrowing as she contemplated whatever news she had just received. "No, I didn't mind. So what did..." I stood and began to walk away. There wasn't much I could get out of hearing this one sided conversation. "Wait! MacGyver!" She called after me. "Phone for you."

"Could have fooled me," I murmured as I pulled the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

"MacGyver? This is Tucker."

"Oh hey, Tucker. Did you see Pete this morning?"

"Yeah, he just stopped by to tell me that he was going home early. The thing is, I had something that I needed to talk to him about, but he looked really miserable and I just didn't have the heart to ask to him stay... Can you come to my office so we can talk privately?"

I glanced at Helen sitting next to me, chewing on the end of her pen and staring up at me. "Uh, sure. I'll be right over."

I placed the phone back on the receiver, waved goodbye to Helen, who was still watching me with curiosity, and walked down the hall a ways, stopping at the door marked James Tucker.

I knocked on the door softly before opening it, not bothering to wait for a "come in."

Tucker was sitting at his desk, his forehead wrinkled with a frown as he stared at a typed piece of paper in front of him.

"MacGyver," he acknowledged.

I nodded back and stood with my hands in my pockets, waiting for him to bring up the topic he hadn't wanted to broach on the phone.

"Well, MacGyver, I have a job for you."

"Hang on. My work for the Foundation isn't...regular. I think it would be better if we waited until Pete gets back." I was slightly surprised at his blunt declaration.

"Can't do that, or there could be real trouble. There have been some ecological disturbances in Australia, and we've been asked to send someone down there. As it is, we know you have a love for this sort of thing and," Tucker smiled, "Pete suggested if there were any missions leading to Australia, we leave them on his desk. Apparently one of his good friends has been wanting to go there for some time."

I smiled, but I was still slightly bewildered. "Yeah, I have, but... how is what goes on in the middle of Australia our business? Shouldn't their government worry about that?"

Tucker nodded. "Yes, usually, but the person who issued this complaint insinuated that the United States was involved in the problem."

"Was there any proof for his claim?" I pulled my hand from my pocket and gestured toward the paper he was fingering.

"Well, he said that some American experimental shuttles were released and affected the ecosystem near there. It checked out, too, there were records on file of a shuttle launched and passing over Australia."

"So even if his claims are false, it pulls us into the equation."

"Exactly." Tucker pulled a map from the pile of papers on his desk, passing it to me. "Here's a map of the area."

"It's in the middle of nowhere! There's no city for a hundred miles!" I shook my head. "Who sent you this?"

There was no way that someone lived out there, and it was unlikely that someone was passing through the area and had the practiced eye to notice the subtle differences of a struggling ecosystem.

"I already checked him out. It came from a guy named Roy Matthews and he's got two green thumbs and eight green fingers from what I've heard about him. Big nature freak."

"So this green handed man wants to catch someone messing up the ecosystem red handed?" I couldn't help myself. Tucker chuckled in response.

"So are you up for it, MacGyver?"

I thought about it for a moment. I would be in Australia, one hundred miles from anything civilized, trekking all alone through some unknown territory to see how a few plants and animals were doing. Sounded just about perfect.

I smiled. "When do I leave?"

Australia. One of the most wondrous, and strangest, places on earth. The world's largest island that held the world's most unique creatures. I've wanted to go there ever since I was a kid; the pictures of the wildlife and the scenery fascinated me. Plus, I've always enjoyed the smell of cough drops, as weird as it may seem, so the eucalyptus trees all around would be a bonus.

With nothing more to accomplish at the Foundation, I jogged down the stairs and stepped outside into the parking lot, pulling the keys out of my pocket and climbing into my Jeep. I turned the ignition and once I heard the successful roar of the engine, I started for home.

Once at my houseboat, I took off my heavy coat, throwing it on the table beside the door along with my keys. I checked the answering machine but it didn't look like there were any new messages. Figuring that Pete would probably be home by now, I picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number.

"Hello?" A cough and sniffle accompanied the brief word.

"Hey, Pete. How're you feeling?"

"I'm fine, Mac. I don't even think I'm that sick; it's just a little cold. Maybe I-"

"No, Pete, trust me, you're sick. I know someone with the flu when I see him. Stay at home; go to bed. Just relax."

"How can I relax when I have all this work to do? It'll all pile up while I'm gone and I'll never catch up!"

"I wouldn't worry about it, Pete. Tucker has things covered back at the Foundation." I opened the refrigerator and peered inside, grabbing a carton of orange juice before pouring it into a glass. "In fact, he offered me a mission in Australia. Said something about you reserving anything in Australia for a friend." I took a sip before continuing. "Thanks."

Pete gave a muffled cough. "No problem. So, what's going on in Australia?"

"Oh, some guy named Matthews sent something in blaming the U.S. for problems in the Outback. I'll be heading over tomorrow morning."

"Well, good luck. And be careful, there isn't anyone out there who can come to help you if something happens."

"I know, Pete, I'll be careful. When am I not?" I grinned slightly as I heard Pete snort on the other side of the phone.

I hung up a short while later, finished my glass of orange juice, and climbed up the stairs to pack for my trip.

I opened my drawers and tossed a wad of clothes into a backpack before going back downstairs and grabbing a few other miscellaneous items: a fresh roll of duct tape, a few water bottles, a length of rope, and a sleeping bag.

I paused to think. My Swiss army knife was still in my pocket, but I would put it in my bag tomorrow. With the mental boxes on my list checked, I glanced at the clock; it was about seven. I had plenty of time.

Pulling on my roller blades and grabbing my hockey stick, I placed two chairs a short distance apart and dropped a ball on the ground. It bounced a few times and rolled away, but I shoved off after it, catching it with the flat of my stick. I glided around, pushing the ball in front of me, rapidly switching my stick from side to side to keep it going straight as I headed for the goal. Lining up, I pulled back and gave the ball a quick smack, sending it right between the chairs.

"Whoo!" I shouted to myself. The silence seemed deafening after that. Well, no time like the present to fix it. I bladed over to the TV and turned it to the sports channel, the crowds going wild as a kickoff went straight down the field. Not my sport, but it would do.

With a flick of my wrist, I had the ball in my possession again and sent it between the two chairs. This time I didn't have to be my own crowd, the TV did it for me as the announcers declared, "Touchdown!"


	2. Chapter 2

Early the next morning, an annoying beep broke into my sleep, bringing my hand into a reflexive position on top of the off button. As I lay in the sudden silence, my mind began to retrace the previous day.

Australia.

I could hardly wait.

Excitement coursed through my veins as I got out of bed and thumped down the stairs, pausing in the kitchen to pull out a box of cereal.

After downing the contents of the bowl, I rinsed it and placed it in the dishwasher before jogging back upstairs to grab a quick shower and change into comfortable traveling clothes. Within 15 minutes I was out the door and in my jeep, turning the key in the ignition.

As I drove to the airport, my mind wandered, running over what I would do once I had completed what work required. I planned on camping out for a few nights before returning to Perth, where my flight was scheduled to leave a week after my arrival.

I pulled into the parking lot at the airport, grabbing my backpack and throwing it over my shoulder. Upon entering the building, a mobile obstacle course of people and suitcases hindered my movement. I struggled forward to get in line, silently thankful that claustrophobia had never been on my list of fears.

The people in front of me inched slowly forward in the crowded space, moving gradually toward a long desk with several women standing behind them and tapping away on computers. One of the ladies held a phone to her ear, and while I couldn't hear the words issuing directly from her mouth, they echoed overhead almost intelligibly, announcing numbers and names of gates.

Finally, I was next up in line, and I walked over to pay for and take my ticket for a flight that went first to Sydney, then to Perth.

"Good morning, sir." The woman behind the counter looked like she thought it was anything but as she snapped her bubblegum in boredom.

"Morning." I smiled and waited for her to respond. Nothing. Oh well. "Name's MacGyver. There should be a ticket reserved for me?"

"Perth, Australia?" She asked after a few tries at correctly spelling my name. At my nod, she continued typing.

After I had received my ticket and gotten my luggage through, I walked over and sat next to my gate.

I stared somewhat vacantly into space, my mind idealizing the time I would spend in Australia. In the back of my mind, I knew that things wouldn't happen the way I was imagining them, but I figured so long as I knew I was only dreaming, there was no harm in it.

A loud, accented voice removed me from my distant state. In fact, it looked like it had also removed those around me from their own.

"Coach? But I reserved my seat on this flight weeks ago!" The Australian accent echoed slightly in the cavernous room, reaching far through the airport. I located the source of the peace-breaker: a man wearing a finely made suit, his hair forced into submission my gel and a comb, and an annoyed scowl chiseled onto his face.

A petite young woman dressed in a stewardess's uniform appeared to be attempting to reason with him, her hands motioning as she expressed what I assumed was sympathy.

As their debate continued, I allowed myself to retreat back into my mind. I honestly wasn't that interested in a battle to be taken back to first class. Besides, I was pretty sure I knew who would come out on top-the stewardess. Though calm and cool, they were made of steel, and no one managed to keep disagreeing with them.

Moments later, the intercom sounded again, and though I couldn't understand a word of what was said, I determined from my watch-and the fact that everyone was moving to stand in a line-that it was time for my flight's departure.

Somehow I ended up right behind the man who had been struggling to regain his seat in first class, and by all appearances, he was still fuming. He snapped at the woman who was checking tickets, stormed down the tunnel that led onto the plane, and, to my dismay, threw himself into the seat closest to the aisle of row twenty.

Somewhat frantically, I rechecked the row number on my ticket. Twenty.

Great.

I made my way down the aisle and practically had to climb over the man who had been parked in my row as, in an attempt to display his anger, he refused to cooperate and move his legs. This was going to be interesting, I could tell.

There I was; on one side, a man who was furious because he had to sit somewhere with less leg room, and on my other side a perfect view out the window that would reveal that I was somehow, by the laws of physics, seated in a giant chunk of metal that would momentarily be hurtling through the air at 500 miles per hour.

I slouched in my seat and stared straight ahead as a voice began to announce that in the unlikely event that the plane started to crash, we could all jump out of a door to save ourselves. The airplane began taxiing down the runway, and my stomach dropped as the ground outside vanished. I stifled the urge to groan. Have I ever mentioned that I hate heights? Because I do. I really...really do.

In the interest of maintaining a... well, a debatably pleasant seatmate beside me, I refrained from groaning, instead pulling down the flap that covered the window.

"Put that back up!" the man beside me demanded. "Young people today..."

Actually, he didn't look that much older than me. His hair was light brown and his face was unlined. The styling of his clothes also suggested that he was younger, though sometimes a more modern side is hard to detect when a person is wearing a suit. But since I didn't think he was kidding, I decided to take his comment about young people as a compliment.

The plane bounced through turbulence as I said, "Could I leave it closed? I have this thing about heights."

The man glared at me. "I enjoy a view!"

I flipped opened the corner of the covering on the window. White rushed by us as we were jostled through a cloud. "Ummm... I think these conditions could qualify as a white-out."

"Look, mister, I don't know who you think you are, but I have a right to an open window! I happen to enjoy natural light!"

For crying out loud, the guy almost sounded American.

Vogue; Reader's Digest; an Australian Guide to Wildlife... I grabbed this one, flipping through the pages and lingering on Australia's signature animals: kangaroos, koalas, and platypuses. Oh my.

By the time our arrival to the land down under had been announced, I had become thoroughly sick of the man beside me. He grumbled, complained, and made the tasks of those poor flight attendants ten times harder than was necessary. I spent most of the flight pretending to be asleep, since I couldn't look out the window without making nail marks on my armrests and my neighbor had already snapped at me for supposedly staring at him as I avoided the window.

Having only a few options left for where to look, I decided to gaze fondly at the insides of my eyelids.

We descended and bounced onto the runway. The minute the seat belt sign went off, my ever-so-patient seatmate charged off ahead of everybody and exited the plane. I rolled my eyes as I clicked off my own seatbelt, grabbing my pack as I merged into the line of passengers leaving the plane.

I flowed with the crowd out of the gate but separated as most of them went to meet with those waiting for them or headed towards the luggage carrousel. I turned, looking for the airport gift shop where I was supposed to meet Roy Matthews.

As I waited for him to appear, I wandered aimlessly about the small store, eying hats with pictures of kangaroos and T-shirts with the word "Australia" printed on them. Key chains were on display next to the cash register, and I shrugged, not even fighting the impulse to buy one.

I glanced at each different variety, trying not to wince at the ear-piercing screech of metal as I twirled the display case to see them all. I eventually settled on one that was red with a smattering of different creatures native to Australia. As I was paying for it, someone spoke behind me.

"Excuse me, sir, are you Mr. MacGyver?"

I turned and glanced at the middle aged, dark haired man who had spoken.

"Yeah. How'd you know?" There were people all around me-quite a few Americans among them-and I felt a little concerned that he had been able to pick me out.

With a slight smile, he motioned to my hair. "The Phoenix Foundation provided us with a brief description."

I nodded my head. "Roy Matthews?"

The smile on his face disappeared. "No, Mr. Matthews couldn't make it today, he had some sort of family emergency. My name is Kurt Jennings. Mr. Matthews told me to come in his place and show you where to go."

Must have been some emergency for this guy to miss when he had put a lot of effort into contacting us. "I hope everything's alright."

"Me, too," Kurt gave a small, sympathetic nod before he smiled again. "Well, Mr. MacGyver, I'll show you where you can rent a good car."

I followed Kurt to the rental car shop, examining the variety of vehicles. There were some pretty nice cars, but I felt drawn to the single Jeep, the only car that appeared practical for where I was heading.

"Here," Kurt held out a floppy piece of paper, folded tightly into a small rectangle. "I've marked a route on this map. Good luck, MacGyver."

"Take care, Kurt." I watched him walk away before climbing into the jeep. As I sat, I took the newly bought key chain from my pocket and clipped it onto the zipper of my pack, saving it for my keys at home. I shook open the map and, after a few moments of deciphering, I started the engine and was on my way.


	3. Chapter 3

I would like to say that the ride through the outback was a breeze and that I had never experienced anything more relaxing in my life... but I can't.

The roads were incredibly bumpy and there were times I was fighting to stay in my seat, even with the seat belt. The scenery was nothing to be sneezed at, but it's kinda hard to focus on the beauty of the outdoors when there's dust blowing into your eyes a mile a minute. Windshields, I was quickly discovering, only work to a certain extent, and are at their best when it's raining or you're driving through a swarm of bugs.

I was about as far as I could get from anything civilized, which I honestly wouldn't have a problem with but for one thing: the engine stalled. A cough and a splutter later, I was sitting in a dead Jeep, and after examining the gauges in front of me, I quickly discovered that the problem was really quite simple.

There wasn't a drop of gas in the tank. The thing was bone dry.

I groaned and leaned back in my seat, shoving my foot hopefully against the gas pedal for good measure. Picking up the map that lay on the seat next to me, I looked at the odometer that was mounted into the dashboard.

I examined the map and the distance I had driven from Perth before locating the last town I had driven by. Doing some quick math, I came up with an estimate for where I was.

One hundred and twelve kilometers...roughly translated: 70 miles. Thirty miles from where I needed to be and more than twice that far from a gas pump.

I opened the door and stepped down onto the dusty road. It looked like no one had driven on it for a long time-understandable, since it was 70 miles from the civilized world and in the middle of a desert.

As I walked around the car, looking for a solution, I spotted something that surprised me. A set of footprints were neatly placed in the dirt, leading somewhere east of the road.

After a moment's thought, I grabbed my pack and threw it onto my back, following the footprints and hoping they would lead me somewhere with gas... and if fuel was scarce, any human with a ride out of the area would be welcome.

The footprints were growing more difficult to see with the wind blowing the loose sand wherever it pleased. Vegetation was sparse, but present, and I could see a few animals scurrying here and there through the intense heat of the blazing sun.

I had been walking for some time when I decided to take a break beneath one of the trees that somehow managed to survive in the desert.

Don't get me wrong, I still think that Australia is a beautiful place, but somehow when you're alone in a desert with the sun scorching your face and shade near impossible to find, it kinda puts a damper on the enthusiasm you might have been feeling.

As I planted myself in the short shadow of a tree with a thin layer of leaves plastered over the top, I opened my pack and pulled out one of the water bottles and the knife I had placed inside and put it in my pocket before unscrewing the lid capping the water.

I poured the liquid down my throat before pooling a small portion into my cupped palm and splashing the back of my neck, trying to speed up the cooling process.

I stood a moment later, keeping the water bottle outside of my backpack and flipping it idly as I continued to follow the footprints.

The trail led beneath the shadow of another tree, but when I followed it, I felt a jerk beneath me as a rope tightened around my foot and pulled it straight up into the air. Unfortunately, the rest of me had to follow. Gravity acted very predictably; the water bottle I had been tossing came down, hitting the back of my head firmly as though protesting the fact that I had been tossing it at all.

I grunted, my hand reaching to massage the back of my head just after my pack fell to the ground with a thud. My other hand reached automatically for the knife that was in my pocket, but when I moved, whatever force had been holding it there dropped it, leaving it on the ground next to my bottle of water.

Stretching out my fingers, I attempted to grab the knife, but it had fallen just out of reach. This wasn't going to work.

Slowly, I began to swing my body like a pendulum, and when I was going far enough, my fingers snatched up the knife. I stopped swinging and then snapped out the blade, reaching upwards in an attempt to cut the rope that held me in a suspended position.

"Allow me, MacGyver." A smooth voice sounded and suddenly gravity won the tug-a-war as the rope fell slack.

"Ow!" I hit the hard ground with a thud, my knife slipping in my hand and slicing the tip of my finger. I scrambled into a sitting position as a man stepped into view, wearing casual khaki shorts and a white shirt that buttoned up the front. The brim of his hat put his face in shadow, but I'd heard that voice enough times to recognize it.

"You got a band-aid, Murdoc? Preferably one with Daffy Duck or Bugs Bunny." I winced as I started to stand, placing my wounded finger in my mouth for a moment in hopes of sucking away the sting as well as the blood.

Murdoc pulled off his hat, letting it hang against his back by the string. "Very cute, MacGyver. I notice that you are not surprised by my appearance."

I shrugged, keeping my expression slightly bored. "Well, after the first few times you've shown up after being blown up, drowned, or buried, it's started to lose its surprise. Now it's comparable to a family reunion. You know how people feel about those."

"I'm flattered that you think of me as family, MacGyver. Granted, I may be the member you dread to see, but still, the thought is nice. Much more generous than how I view you."

"Yeah, I think your previous actions made your thoughts towards me pretty clear," I said calmly, though in my mind I was preparing myself for whatever he would throw at me.

I stayed silent, waiting for him to speak, but Murdoc just watched me with a serene expression. My forehead wrinkled slightly as I watched him, slightly unnerved.

Finally, I couldn't take the silence any longer. I took a deep breath and clapped my hands together, clasping them tight. "Well, Murdoc, it was... interesting seeing you again, but I really should get going." I pointed a thumb behind me in the direction I had come from, taking a few steps back. To my surprise, he didn't try to stop me.

I turned my back on him, wincing as I waited for a blow or a shot to strike my back.

"How is Pete, MacGyver?"

The question brought me up short. I felt my heart begin to beat a little faster and suddenly felt very cold in the blazing heat.

I spun around and glimpsed him leaning against the tree, casually picking his fingernails. "I do hope that he is well. I hear there is a nasty flu going around..." His eyes flashed up from his hand and met with mine, a knowing smirk slowly growing on his face.

I was feeling worried, but disguised it in an attempt to appear laid-back and calm. "What did you do to him, Murdoc?"

Drat. I just knew my words had given away what I was trying to hide.

"Well, let it suffice us to say that I have friends who deal in a slightly more... refined aspect of assassination. Poisons are so easy to slip into a vaccine, and when I saw that there was one that rather conveniently had initial flu-like systems…" Murdoc trailed off, his voice and appearance lazy and relaxed despite the meaning of his words.

Honestly, I had never felt more of an urge to hit someone in my life, but I struggled against the desire. Murdoc, after all, knew where I could find an antidote.

"So what do you want, Murdoc? Pointless revenge?"

He sighed. "You make it sound so petty when you put it like that, MacGyver. This is incredibly personal to me-and to you, at this point."

"You know, I'm starting to get curious. Is there really a Roy Matthews, and are there really problems in Australia?" One of the predictable things about Murdoc was his inclination to monologue. I just had to ask the right question and he'd be off like a rocket, attempting to expand my perspective of his own cleverness.

"To the first question one, yes, and to the second, no. I knew that your Phoenix Foundation would be operating with someone other than Pete, and I also knew that they would check the story I presented, so I made it as plausible as I knew how. Looks like it worked quite well."

"Yeah, you're quite the evil genius."

"Yes, well, getting you to this spot took quite some work. I had to calculate the amount of gas needed to make your jeep quit here. Oh, really, MacGyver, did you really think that there would only be one jeep at that well stocked rental? I didn't want to waste my time tampering with all the fuel tanks, so I had to remove a few variables."

"Ah, I see. So, what about Pete? I'd prefer if you didn't remove him, too."

Murdoc chuckled. "If you want to save your friend, I suggest you follow in my footsteps." He suddenly turned and walked out into the desert. After a few steps, he stopped and turned around. "Oh, and I do mean in my footsteps. You never know what's hidden off the path."

He continued forward, casually reaching into his pocket and pulling out what looked like a small rock. It hit the ground, bouncing once after striking something that began to beep after it was touched. As the slow beep gradually built up speed, I dived behind the tree, covering my ears as a small, yet powerful explosion threw dust up into the air.

Surprise, surprise. Looked like Murdoc had mined the path.

I could still feel the vibrations in the soles of my shoes as I peered around the tree. Murdoc walked out of the dust cloud without a backwards glance.

My instinct screamed at me not to follow, but how could I not? Following Murdoc might be suicidal, but it was also the only way to save Pete. I walked around the tree and grabbed my pack.

Letting out a long breath, I trudged forward, stepping in the footprints of the man who wanted nothing more than me dead.

Australia. The land of beautiful nature, wondrous creatures... and obsessed assassins. This was going to be a long trip.


	4. Chapter 4

I followed Murdoc for what seemed to be a long time, placing my feet exactly where his boots had left a print. Mines were scattered in the sand surrounding the faint path, and I knew that the slightest move would send a trail of explosions all the way back to the tree that I had so innocently passed under in hopes of shade.

We eventually reached a dirt road, which surprised me. The map had said we were a long ways from any town, and I hadn't expected any signs of civilization until I returned to the city.

For a while, I wondered if there was someone who was a bit eccentric and excessively emphasized fresh air, but I dropped this idea shortly after for one reason. We had reached a town.

There was no one in the streets, and pickaxes lay on the sides of the road as though discarded in a rush.

Murdoc had a real desire for authenticity, I decided. Either that or he had watched a few too many westerns. It looked a bit different from the ghost towns in America, but held a certain level of similarity. Buildings lined the streets, windows boarded up and doors shut tightly. There was a coating of dust on everything in sight, leaving only a few signs readable. I glanced past the signs for a general store, newspaper office, and an inn before noticing a building without a sign, though its purpose was easily recognizable: a train station.

I turned to ask Murdoc where we were and what he wanted, and if he would please tell me where the antidote was so I could go home, but it was hard to face someone who wasn't there. I glanced down to find his footprints again, following them with my eyes as they led up to a shaded boardwalk beside the road and disappeared along with the dust.

"Murdoc!" The man had vanished, and I wasn't happy with him for it. In order to confront someone, you needed to know where they were, and it was a little difficult to determine what I would do to get the antidote away from Murdoc when I couldn't tell where he was or what he was doing.

"Murdoc!" I called again, stepping up onto the boardwalk. By the time I reached the other side of the town, I was jogging, trying to spot him. I paused as I heard a sound, looking around in an attempt to place it. As my eyes traveled over the sign in front of me, it clicked. The train station. It was the door of a train car! I hurried off the boardwalk in the direction of the abandoned tracks.

I reached the railway, coming upon a rusted old train. One of the doors to its many cars stood open. After a quick glance around, even under the train, I saw no sign of Murdoc. It was a risk, but I had nowhere else to go. I cautiously stepped up inside the car.

The light coming in from the door illuminated only half the car, leaving the rest in shadow. By all appearances, it was a kitchen. I looked around, spying the small wood-burning stove and open cupboards full of dusty and chipped teacups and kettles, but no Murdoc.

I whipped around as I heard the door closing. It wouldn't have been a problem, except for the fact that I was still inside and when I rushed to open it, it seemed to be locked. I heard the muffled laugh from outside. "Murdoc," I whispered angrily as I tried the door again.

"Try all you want, MacGyver, but that door is sealed shut. Though, if you're too lonely in there, I can give you some company."

There was a thump as something hit the floor. I looked down and saw that Murdoc had shoved something inside through a small hole in the side of the car.

I couldn't see the object very well since it was out of the light, but I could hear it. A small hissing sound issued from it and suddenly my lungs seemed to shrink and my eyes started to water. Tear gas. Just what I needed.

I didn't take the time to think as I grabbed my pocketknife and cut a scrap of cloth from my shirt. Too bad; it was one of my favorites. I coughed against the fabric, my throat rough and scratchy. After tying it around my nose and mouth, I still held my breath for as long as possible, breathing as little as I could manage.

Before the gas could creep all through the room and leave little breathable air, I glanced around, looking for a way out. The first place I looked was up, since light was filtering through, and, sure enough, a grate was fastened to the ceiling.

I climbed onto the counter by the stove, examining the grate. It was tightly secured, the screws rusted almost beyond recognition. I flipped out the screwdriver on my knife, scratching some of the orange rust away before beginning to twist the screws.

My eyes streamed as I struggled with the grate; even turning my knife as hard as I could, it barely moved. I let out one breath and grabbed another as, finally, the first screw dropped to the floor. Now only three more.

The next screw turned a bit more easily, taking me only about 30 seconds to remove it. I moved on to the next, but this one proved far more difficult than even the first. It wouldn't move at all; no matter how much rust I scratched away or how hard I turned, it wouldn't budge. Something abruptly gave way in my knife, and wiping my eyes once more so I could see past the tears blurring my vision, I glanced up. The screwdriver had broken, a jagged metal toothpick sticking up where a Philips head had been seconds before.

I pushed the useless blade down, picking out the knife and moving on to the next screw. There was no way I could get the other. It turned slowly, far too slowly for my own tastes, careful not to put too much strain on my blade. The screw finally slipped free, falling to the ground with a noise I barely noticed as I pivoted the grate, an unpleasant screech present as I did so.

I Harry Houdini-ed my way out, almost dislocating my shoulder as I squeezed through the small space. My belt caught on the metal, but I ignored it and pulled free, some of the leather ripping as I struggled through. The things my wardrobe went through for the Phoenix Foundation.

I tugged the fabric off my mouth and collapsed on the top of the train car in a coughing fit. As I caught my breath I heard a small applause coming from the ground. Blinking rapidly, I looked over the side and saw Murdoc smiling up at me.

"Well done, MacGyver. I was worried for a minute that you weren't going to make it."

"Worried?" I coughed skeptically.

"Yes. If you didn't make it out, I'd have to cut our little game short, and what fun would that be?"

"It would be more fun for me..." I suggested somewhat sarcastically.

He shrugged. "No need for sarcasm, MacGyver. Shall we cut to the chase?"

I rolled over on the roof and jumped down, wiping my still watering eyes and ignoring his question.

"You want the antidote. I have it. But not on my person, I'm afraid." He said quickly, as though in an attempt to keep me from attacking him in search of the cure to Pete's unexpected ailment. "I suppose I will refrain from telling you directly where it is, but be warned. The entire town is prepared for you, so watch your back." A chuckle slipped past his lips.

I glared at him. "How do I know that this isn't all just a trap?"

"You don't. I wouldn't worry. Why would I kill you now when I've spent all this time preparing to see the show? You are the main act, after all." Murdoc gestured toward me with his hands, as if I should be honored and he expected a thank you. When I still eyed him warily, he turned his back on me and stepped up onto the boardwalk to sit on an old rocking chair that was somehow still in one piece. He swept his arm across in an inviting indication for me to explore.

I sighed, turning my back to him and striding down the center of the street. On all sides I was surrounded by buildings that looked the same: old, dilapidated, and unsound. Oh well. Without any clues, I might as well go about things systematically.

I tried the building nearest the train station on the right, rattling the doorknob and pushing against the door. With a creak, it eased open, but before stepping inside, I looked around. After all, Murdoc had said the place was booby-trapped. There was no sign of anything out of the ordinary, but as a precaution, I decided to send something ahead of me.

I turned around and grabbed a pickaxe lying on the ground nearby, tossing it into the store before me. As it landed with a thud, a large boom triggered inside, sending out a puff of smoke. My already irritated eyes protested, watering profusely, and I turned away, leaving the door open so the room could air out. If need be, I could tackle that building later.

Moving to the next building, which read "Gazette" on a sign overhead, I examined the door. Well, this looks promising. It was wooden like the rest of the building, but a new lock and knob adorned it; the dirt that was present everywhere else in the town was absent here.

I tried the door somewhat doubtfully, but it opened silently, adding to my conclusion that the original door had been replaced. Pushing it open all the way, I remained standing on the threshold, then glanced down the boardwalk and saw a chair just a little ways over. Walking over, I grabbed the arm of the chair, preparing to jerk it off, but when I took hold of it, it broke away without effort. I glanced at the rotting wood in my hand. Well, that was easy.

I tossed the wood into the doorway and then quickly jumped back, expecting a small explosion like before. Nothing. Murdoc never did the same thing twice. I walked inside cautiously, visually exploring the room. A large press stood in the corner of the room, several printing plates stacked haphazardly beside it. Across from it stood a camera on a tripod, complete with the cloth covering and the tray for flash powder.

Pulling a match from my pack and striking it to light it, I looked around the room, hoping for a lamp or something to illuminate what the light from the door couldn't reach. A kerosene lamp sat precariously on the edge of a table, but before I could light it with the match I already held, the flame flickered and went out. I reached into my pack and pulled out a second match, cupping my hand around it to shield it from the breeze as I held it to the wick.

After the wick finally caught, I looked more closely around the now lit room. There it was. Sitting on a stand in the middle of the room, a glass vial shone in the light, beckoning me forward. I glanced around the edges of the room, trying to spy some sort of complication, but the surrounding shelves held nothing more than old printing equipment.

I slowly stepped forward toward the center of the room, stopping a few feet away from the antidote. The metal stand supported the glass vial, and a few things cluttered the edge of what appeared to be, essentially, a desk.

I moved to stand closer to the metal table, examining it closely. A mass of wires clustered around the corner of the table, sending a threatening message. From the direction the wires were heading and the place the vial was balanced, I was willing to guess that this was some sort of pressure switch.

Pulling my knife from my pocket, I crouched down next to the group of wires, debating which to cut. Ordinarily, a pressure switch has only one wire: something to tell the power source whether or not the inner workings are still making the proper connection. With the extra number of wires involved, I was willing to bet that each held a surprise equally unpleasant... that was, unless I cut the right one.

I stood again, examining the rest of the objects on the table and trying to find a clue of some sort. Positioned somewhat randomly across the table were what looked like an old-fashioned birdcage and a few stacked books. As I scanned the titles, I heard a shuffle behind me. Startled, I quickly jerked around, but as I did so, my fingers brushed against the metal handle of the birdcage.

A surprising shock tingled up my arm, painfully enough to make me swing my arm around and knock the cage to the floor.

As I shook my wrist wildly to try to dispel the unpleasant tingling, something on the table caught my eye.

Positioned directly beneath the birdcage's former location, a square, metal panel with a protruding hinge was visible. I flipped the blade out on my pocketknife, prying the panel open to examine the switch's inner workings. Hopefully there was only one wire inside.

Ah. I've never been so glad to see a single red wire. I tugged enough of the wire out to fold around edge of my knife and cut it with a quick pull.

I moved to close the panel back up, but the moment my finger touched the metal, a second shock traveled up through my arm, except this time, it couldn't compare. It struck me with a force strong enough to shove me back and vaporize my kneecaps. I hit the floor and shuddered, feeling the echoes of the pain slowly start to ebb away.

Soon my heartbeat started to return to normal and only a slight tingle remained in my fingers and toes. I shook my head and slowly began to stand. As I looked up, I noticed something mounted near the ceiling by the desk. A camera.

Still dangling from the mouth of the old Polaroid was a photo that was starting to change from gray into a picture of me. I grimaced as I saw the final development. It showed me cringing back from the blue spark that traveled from the metal table to my finger. My expression was wild and pain filled. Not my best side.

I did feel slightly better after seeing the picture, because that meant that Murdoc had expected me to die from that shock, expected to take a picture of my last living moment. I flexed my hands, hoping that Murdoc didn't have another camera.

I blew out a deep breath, glancing at the glass vial on the pressure switch. What was Murdoc thinking? Glass didn't conduct electricity. Why put it on an electrified pressure switch if I was just going to be able to take it off?

Hoping I had cut the right wire, I avoided the metal and grabbed the antidote. The pressure switch it was resting on was released. I tensed for a moment, but when nothing disastrous happened, I relaxed. I guess that was the correct wire after all. Tucking the vial carefully away in my pack, I reached for the doorknob.

The knob jiggled uselessly. Locked. Maybe that wasn't the right wire after all...

There was no keyhole, the door was locked electronically. Ironically, I, the victim, was the one who had locked it. I tugged back on the handle a few times before releasing it. Trying to think, I leaned forward, stopping when my forehead hit the barrier.

"Ow," I said quietly to the stubborn door.

I turned around and pressed my back against the door while I scanned the room, searching for any possible ways out. My eyes fell onto the old camera on the tripod.

I walked slowly over to the camera and picked up the small tray that held the flash powder. It was empty, but I continued looking, glancing about the room and spotting a small closet that probably had served as a dark room and supply closet.

Grabbing the lamp, I strode into the closet, carefully shielding the flame from any of the chemicals. Flash powder stood on the bottom shelf, carefully labeled and covered.

Without hesitating, I picked up the can and carried it into the main room, placing it gingerly on the floor next to the door. I paused for a moment, peering about the room and looking for my next ingredient as I placed the lamp back on the table.

The cloth covering attached to the back of the camera looked promising. I ripped it off before tearing it into a long, thin strip.

I grabbed the larger part of the cloth, carrying it over to where the flash powder sat on the floor. Carefully, I shook a small amount of the powder into the cloth, then smoothly righted the can, pushing the lid back down on it as I carried it back into the darkroom. I then returned to the lump of powder and tied the cloth into a ball.

Quickly, I went to the table and blew out the flame that was fueled by kerosene. Grabbing the strip of cloth remaining on the table, I soaked it in the fuel before returning to the door, tucking my homemade fuse into the ball of powder and balancing it on the knob.

Flash powder happens to be a weakened form of gunpowder, but over time, what used to create a small flash and a puff of smoke becomes much more powerful-and unstable. In other words, I had made a small bomb that would blow the door off its hinges.

I pulled a match out and lit the kerosene-doused cloth, moving to take cover behind the printing press before the door blew.

With a sudden boom, the makeshift bomb exploded. I waited a few seconds before rising out of my protective position, waving away the billowing smoke to make my way for the door. It hung lopsided on one hinge. An easy fix. I slammed my foot against it and the door fell completely off. The smoke escaped out of the opening and I quickly ran outside to avoid being swallowed inside the black cloud.

I ducked around the corner of the building while simultaneously removing my pack. Unzipping the pocket, I checked inside and pulled out an undamaged bottle. I let out a relieved sigh. Pete was safe.

A laugh sounded beside me.

I sighed. That was, if I ever get out of here.

I quickly tucked the medicine back and swung the pack onto my shoulder before turning to face Murdoc, who stood directly in the center of my path.

"Another lovely escape, MacGyver."

"Why, thank you. Now if you'll step aside, I'll gladly show you another one."

"You wouldn't leave now, would you? Just when the game is beginning?"

"Just beginning? Let's face it, Murdoc, the electricity from that pressure switch was meant to kill me. I wouldn't call that an appetizer!"

Murdoc smiled as he pulled the photograph of me from his pocket. "I admit that it wasn't... but I have to say, I was prepared for the possibility of you getting out."

"Aren't you quite the boy scout."

"You see, MacGyver," he continued as though I had never spoken, "That vial you hold is not the antidote. I knew that the newspaper office had too much available; too many ways for you to get out, so I took a precaution. It's tap water."

I knew that I couldn't take him at his word, but I also knew that he was perfectly capable of doing what he had claimed.

"Look, it's getting late and I have a bad case of jet lag. Why don't you just give me the antidote and I'll be going? I've played your game."

"You've played the game, but not by the rules. You've rolled twice, and now it's my turn."

I didn't see anything coming, but felt something hit the back of my head. The cliché that seems so consistently present in my life came into effect as the impact turned my world black.


	5. Chapter 5

Pete groaned as he rolled over on the couch, the TV blaring obnoxiously in the background.

His stomach hurt and he had a headache, chills, plus a racking cough that stirred up from time to time. He was unable to focus on the image projected by the TV and the noise hurt his head, but the remote was on the coffee table on the other side of the room, and he just didn't have the energy to get up and turn it off.

The pain in his stomach increased and an adrenaline rush drew him to his feet as he rushed to the kitchen and emptied his stomach into the sink.

Pete groaned again, returning to the couch and snaring the remote as he did so, pressing the mute button. He had just closed his eyes, hoping sleep would bring relief from his discomfort, when the phone rang.

'I just got settled in, and getting up takes too much energy.' He debated against the phone's ring and won, ignoring it until the answering machine kicked in.

"Hey, Dad, this is Michael, I was just calling to see if you were doing anything this weekend-" Pete stood and ambled clumsily over to the phone.

"Hey, Michael."

"Hi, Dad, how has your week been so far?"

Pete coughed spasmodically into his sleeve, angling the phone away from his face. "Good. How have you been?"

"Doing alright. Are you sure you're okay? You sound a little funny."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Pete wiped his watering eyes.

"Alright, well, I was wondering if you want to do something this weekend. Maybe go bowling?"

Pete glanced at the calendar on the wall. It was Friday. "Um... Maybe not this week. I have..." He couldn't say work, that lie would do more harm than good. "I've been sick, I wouldn't want you to catch what I had." He used past tense in an attempt to distract from the fact that he was still sick. 'Stubbornness can do funny things to a man.' Pete gave a false cough into the phone for effect.

"Wow. You? Actually sick? What killer germs got past your force field?" Pete smiled. Past his son's joking words he could hear the slight concern in his tone.

"Oh, it's nothing, just a bit of a flu bug. I should be back to one hundred percent in no time. Although you'll wish I'd still be sick because I'm going to cream you in bowling."

"Yeah, right, old man." Michael laughed. "Next Friday?"

"I'll be there."

Pete hung up the phone and collapsed back onto the couch. Trying to sound energetic took too much energy. He closed his eyes, feeling like someone was already bowling a strike inside his head.

Suddenly, the phone rang for a second time. Pete was prepared to just tune it out when the fax machine began humming.

Pete fought with himself for a moment, comparing sleep to work, before sitting up and stumbling over to the fax. He snatched the paper before it fell to the floor, but as he started to read it, he started to sink slowly to the ground. He caught himself and stepped backwards onto the couch, taking a deep breath before finishing the message.

G'day Peter. I would say I wish you were here, but that wouldn't be very honest, would it? Though, I do know a mutual friend of ours that wouldn't mind your company. I believe you know that MacGyver is currently enjoying a trip to Australia.

I've been with H.I.T. for such a long time, and as you know, they seem to want more... closure in MacGyver's case. It has been a mystery how he has managed to escape me time and time again.

But I have come to a conclusion. The reason for MacGyver's victories- and my defeats: A variable. Something that gives him a helping hand; a ledge to stand on. No longer. By removing you, Peter Thornton from the picture, I have removed the variable.

I do hate to sound so immodest, but sometimes I surprise even myself with my ingenious plans. I realize that once I am rid of MacGyver, I would only have you to deal with afterwards. So, I have decided to kill two birds with one stone, as some may say. I realize that MacGyver is your variable, just as you are MacGyver's. It's hard to protect each other when you have the entire world in between you. Say your prayers, Pete. For you and MacGyver.

Pete stared blankly at the page. The numbness that spread through him made him forget his pounding head and turning stomach. He lowered the letter as another fax came.

Unable to move, Pete let the second fax fall, watching it float to the floor where it landed at his feet. A picture of MacGyver, flinching back with a pained expression caused by a thick, blue spark striking the tip of his finger.

Pete balled up his fists, crumbling the page in his hand. Murdoc. Heat rushed through him as he jerked up into a standing position, but the anger couldn't hide the dizziness that came over him.

He fell back onto the couch. The pain in his stomach was too much to bear and a buzzing sound in his ears drowned out any other noise. Spots filled his vision, merging together to make the room fade to black.

The phone rang for a third time, the sound echoing through the quiet room. "Hi, Pete, it's Helen. Just called to check up on you and see how you're doing...I know you don't feel like talking right now, but it would soothe my mind since you're there by yourself. Will you get up off that couch and pick up? Pete? ...Pete, are you there? ...Are you alright? Pete?"

Helen turned flustered. "Peter, if you do not answer this phone right now, I am coming over!..." Her voice faded out as she turned away from the phone. "Margaret! Margaret, Pete's not answering his phone. Run the desk while I'm gone, I'm going over there." She talked back into the phone, concern taking over. "Hang in there, Pete, I'll be there in ten minutes!"

As Helen walked quickly-at least as quickly as she could walk in her high heels-to her car, her imagination actively drew worst-case scenarios of Pete almost visibly in her mind.

Pete would have at least picked up the phone if he was well enough, and the fact that he hadn't worried her.

"Oh, I knew I should have watched him more carefully," she scolded herself as she turned the wheel of her car. "I should have driven him home at the very least."

Helen pushed the speed limit as much as she dared, pulling into Pete's driveway in less than ten minutes. She didn't bother to knock as she opened the door, walking straight into Pete's living room where he lay on the floor, unconscious.

"Pete!"


	6. Chapter 6

I woke up on a lumpy cot sometime later, unsure of how long I had been unconscious. My pack had been removed and my hands were cuffed in front of me.

I sat up slowly, my head pounding. Hesitantly, I maneuvered my hands back to explore the bump on the back of my head. When the tips of my fingers made contact, I winced away from my own touch.

After glancing around at my surroundings, I looked down at my clothes, almost expecting them to be the classic black and white striped prison uniform. The walls and floor looked to be concrete, the only piece of furniture was the cot I was sitting on, and the way out was closed off by a door with iron bars spanning it. A window stood opposite, blocked similarly to the door.

It was what stood beyond the window that suddenly caught my attention. Several sticks of dynamite sat a little beyond reach, bound together with a timer ticking down slowly from a rather obnoxious number: 00:04:23.

Instantly I was on my feet and moving to the door of the cell, checking to see if there was anything I could use to pick the lock. That was when a narrow string of fishing line caught my eye. It was attached to the top of the door, crossed the cell almost invisibly, and clung to the dynamite on the other side of the window. If I attempted to open the door, an unscheduled ka-boom wouldn't leave me more time to dwell on the particulars of my situation.

I turned around and walked to the window, trying to stretch my hands across the gap the window well created to the dynamite on the other side. The chain between my hands wasn't long enough to allow me to reach the explosive, which now read 00:04:01.

I moved back and looked about the room, my mind working furiously to come up with a solution when a little piece of paper caught my eye.

It was placed under the cot in such a way that in my earlier scan of the room, I had been unable to see it. I picked it up, guessing it to be a death note from Murdoc. I glanced at the signature before reading the rest. Yep. Some things were just too predictable. Quickly I scanned the rest of the letter.

MacGyver, obviously you know about the predicament you are in by now. It's a shame your eyes never even caught sight of the antidote... in light of that, I've come upon a solution. If you look through the door, on the far side of the wall there is a small bottle. Feast your eyes upon it, MacGyver. The last thought in your mind will be of your failure to Pete. Murdoc.

What a sick sense of humor.

Checking the note again, I crossed the room to the door, glancing through the bars and down the hall. Sure enough, a mixture stood in a glass vial within clear view, but far out of reach.

I turned my thoughts away, refocusing and attempting to work out a way to get out of this mess.

I stuffed my hand-well, hands, since they were cuffed together-into my pocket, hoping that my knife hadn't been taken with my pack. I found it with no small amount of relief and flipped the cot beside me onto the floor, clumsily cutting through the cloth surface to the springs underneath. Without hesitating, I cut two of the springs and began straightening them out before glancing at the timer again. 00:03:17.

Time was tight, and so were these handcuffs, but picking the lock would take time that I didn't have. New plan.

Once the springs were straight, I bent the end of each into 90-degree angles, creating a hook I quickly yanked the cot in front of the window, standing on it to get a better position, and then maneuvered the hooked ends of the wires between the bars. Once my hands had gone as far as they could, I carefully moved the wires further in until they caught around each end of the dynamite.

00:03:04.

I let out a long, steadying breath as I slowly began to ease the bomb closer. I bit my lip as the clock flipped down to 00:02:56.

There. I pulled the cot springs away from the dynamite and dropped them to the floor. Hastily, I followed the colored wires fastened to the timer, trying to see how this bomb was assembled, or, more importantly, how it could be disarmed.

After locating the correct wire, I grabbed my Swiss army knife again and placed it against the middle of the wire. But right before I cut through, a thought came to me. I glanced at the numbers. 00:02:39.

If I stopped the bomb, Murdoc would be back to find me shortly after his clock hit zero without any side effects. Then he would continue his attempts on my life and, more indirectly, Pete's.

I removed my knife and instead pulled a green wire directly from the clock. Five seconds later the numbers still read 00:02:39.

I reached for the jail door with my cuffed hands and it swung open easily. The string snapped as soon as the door pressed against it, but the bomb remained intact, and so did I.

Going through the doorway, I found myself in the main room where you would first enter the building. Spying a window, I hurriedly went to the wall and peeked around to look through the blurred and dirty glass. In the building across the street I could make out a figure inside. Murdoc. It looked like he was checking his watch. Counting down, most likely.

Escaping through the front door was out. I needed to find another exit.

Standing so close to the dusty window made my nose itch. I raised a hand to rub it, dragging my other arm along with it. I looked with disgust at the handcuffs encircling my wrists. A key. That's what I needed.

I glanced up and saw a second door with a sign over the top. Sheriff's Office. Maybe…

Trying to stay out of the view of the window, I moved inside the room and immediately went toward the desk that stood facing the door leading in.

A quick scan of the top of the desk revealed nothing of use, mostly because it was bare. Leaning down, I quickly pulled open a drawer and then blinked in surprise. Sticks of dynamite layered the bottom. Yep. Murdoc had most definitely been here. I shut that drawer and opened the next one with a little more care. It was empty.

I closed it and sighed. No key. Okay…time to improvise.

I did a double take when I saw my pack sitting in the corner. Walking over, I grabbed it and plunked it on the desk, unzipping the top and looking around for something that would be small enough to pick the lock... though, duct tape and homemade trail mix weren't quite what I had in mind.

As I began to move the zipper back in place, I realized the answer was already in my hand. The keychain. I quickly unclipped it from the end of the zipper and began removing the larger metal circle from the rest of the chain. Once it was free, with a little elbow grease I managed to straighten out the ring and inserted it into the lock of the handcuffs.

Oh, how I love that click. The cuffs opened and fell away from my wrists, finally giving me an opportunity to massage my bruised skin.

I walked around behind the desk to a window that was facing the alley between this building and the next. It was just enough out of view from Murdoc's bunker that I should be able to escape... well, that was the plan, anyway.

With a little bit of tugging, the window scraped open. But instead of climbing out of the opening, I turned and headed back to the cell.

I strode in through the jail door and right up to the bomb, picking up the wire and plugging it back into the clock. The timer ticked down to 00:02:38 and continued its countdown.

Using a longer stride, I returned to the sheriff's office—or Murdoc's office—and tossed my pack quietly through the window before going through it myself.

How I was going to get out of this ghost town and back to civilization I wasn't sure, but one thing I did know: if the dynamite didn't blow, Murdoc would know that I had escaped before I was ready for him to.

I followed the shadowed alley down to the other side where it let out into a wide street. Once there, and sure I was out of Murdoc's view, I broke into a dead run, reaching the end of the road and turning the corner to watch the explosion that would come any second.

Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of Murdoc crossing the street to the town hall... obviously he was growing suspicious since the time for the bomb to explode had passed.

In all honesty, I hoped that it would blow before he reached it. I would be dead by all appearances and maybe Murdoc would leave me alone. But, oddly enough, I didn't want him to be caught in the explosion. Internally, I warred with myself, wondering whether I should stop him or not.

I must have spent more time thinking than I was aware, because when I jumped out and opened my mouth to shout for Murdoc to stop, a thundering explosion rocked the ground.

A large fireball reached into the sky, and the boom of explosives repeated itself several times as the dynamite that had been in my cell caught other sticks and set them off as well.

I winced away from the heat, involuntarily shutting my eyes to protect them from the bright light.

Now, not that I had been paying a lot of attention to Murdoc's presence at this point-explosions tend to be distracting-but I could swear that he wasn't where he had been standing when the explosives blew. And with Murdoc's past... well, I was more than inclined to believe him capable of survival.

Flames swirled around the wooden building and sparks flew into the sky as the timber creaked and fell. The sight would demand anyone's attention, pyromaniac or not. But I couldn't focus on that; I just had to get out of there.

The way I came into town was out. With the path littered with mines, it was too risky. Besides, what would I do with a bone-dry Jeep that's 70 miles from anywhere? There has to be another way out...right?

I jogged to the very edge of the town. Murdoc had gotten here somehow, and as I rounded the last building, I saw how he had accomplished it. A truck.

I strode toward it, yanked open the door, and sat behind the wheel. No keys. Not a problem. I leaned down, tugged a few wires out, and uncapped the ends. A few sparks later, the engine roared to life.

"Goodbye, Murdoc. Hope I never see you again." I muttered to myself as I hit the gas and turned the wheel. I didn't get to go very far before a small pop sounded and smoke began to pour out from the hood of the truck. The engine died and slowed to a stop.

I slumped forward until my forehead touched the steering wheel. This was just not my day. I slammed my hand against the wheel in frustration and jerked back up, opening the door with a forceful shove.

I popped open the hood and waved away the smoke. A small, blinking object was attached to the engine. Man, did Murdoc plan ahead, sabotaging his own truck to blow just in case I came across it. I sighed, slamming the hood back down.

Moving almost automatically, I climbed back into the driver's seat. I sat there feeling more helpless and lost than I did when I was six and got lost by going to the wrong end of a busy beach. It wasn't until a lifeguard found me and radioed for my parents…

Wait a minute. My eyes flashed to the dashboard. Radio. There it was. The beautiful invention was sitting right in front of me...if it worked.

Hopefully, I flipped a switch and looked around for a transmitter. Catching a flash of silver on the far left side of the dashboard, I practically climbed over the seat to reach it. Sure enough, the transmitter was in a whole piece with one exception-the wires had been neatly sliced through.

I sighed. Never was there a man so thorough as Murdoc. The thing was... why would he destroy the radio? I mean, sure, sabotaging the engine was one thing, it was something he could stop if he needed the truck. But cutting wires was more permanent. Surely he'd have a replacement or something equally as good.

So where would he hide it? Instantly my gaze began to seek those hard to reach places of a car. The space beneath the glove box was too open, though he could have covered a hiding place with one of the rugs. Under the seat was another likely place.

I felt the floor in front of me. Perfectly level, which meant he probably hadn't hidden it beneath the mat. That left the seats.

I leaned down and poked my hand under the seat beneath me, feeling around blindly. An image of Murdoc placing a few scorpions for just this occasion suddenly came into mind, making me shake my head to clear the ridiculous thought. That stuff only happened in Indiana Jones. Although, Murdoc wasn't your average Joe...

I flinched as my fingertips brushed against something. Rolling my eyes at my own behavior, I grabbed the object and pulled it into view. Bingo. Houston, we have our transmitter.

I sat up smoothly, setting it on the dashboard and plugging the cord in before flipping the dials on the radio, looking for a station that sounded like it might reach someone.

Static met my first attempts, but soon I had managed to find a station with faint voices.

"Hello? Mayday, mayday, if you can hear me, respond." When no response met my request, I pressed the button on the transmitter. "Hola? Guten tag?" I paused, lifting my finger and hoping for a break in the static. "Bonjour?" I added as an afterthought before switching the station again.

Voices came through stronger as I turned the dial. I hurriedly pressed the button. "Hello? Anyone there? Mayday, mayday, please respond!"

I released the button and my ears filled with static. I was about to give up when a voice came through. "We read your mayday. What's your location?"

I breathed a sigh of relief as I once again depressed the button. "My truck died near the old ghost town with the railroad passing through, just east of the mapped road."

"Right." The man on the other end released the button for one moment and static filled the line again. Seconds later, it cleared. "Rangers are on the way, sir. What's your name?"

"Name's MacGyver."

"Alright, stay put, Mr. MacGyver. Help is on the way."

He sounded like a superhero cliché, but I smiled anyway. Maybe he was.


	7. Chapter 7

I punched in the familiar number and held the phone to my ear. "Come on, Pete. Pick up, pick up, pick up." I tapped the top of the payphone anxiously as the slow rings continued to buzz. I glanced behind through the busy airport until I found the clock, estimating the time until my plane back home was due.

The answering machine kicked in. I slammed the phone back on the hook as the first class for my plane was being called.

I joined the group, receiving looks from business men in clean, pressed suits for my dusty and ripped shirt, since I had used my time getting the quickest flight instead of cleaning up. I managed to snag the last seat available.

I located that seat by the window, immediately closing it to block the view, not wanting to add the troubles of heights into my situation. I shut my eyes, mentally urging the other passengers to board quickly.

I heard someone plop into the seat next to me. "Open that window."

Oh no. The voice belonged to someone I really didn't want to deal with again...well, one of the someones. I opened my eyes and turned my head to see that the man sitting next to me was the same person who made the flight to Australia such an unpleasant ride.

When I made no move to abide his wish, he looked back at me and did a double take. "You again?" he took in my tattered appearance. "What are you doing up here in first class?"

I really didn't have the patience to deal with him. In response to his question I closed my eyes again and answered simply, "Flying."

The man scoffed. "I don't have time to deal with this again. Just open the window."

I ignored him, hoping he'd take the hint.

"Honestly, the people I have to deal with these days. Nothing but smart alecs who have no respect. You live your easy lives and just ride through, but some of us have to work!" His face twisted with disgust.

My eyes snapped open as I turned to face him. "Easy life? Do you have any idea what I have been through in the last twenty-four hours?"

The man opened his mouth to reply, but in my state of anger, I cut him off before he could speak a word. "You wouldn't believe me even if I told you, because according to you, I'm just someone who goofs off and has never had a rough time. Well, let me tell you, it's a plane ride late but I frankly don't care. I'm sick of your complaining that nothing goes your way. I just went into the middle of the desert and almost got killed multiple times because nothing went how I had planned it, but you don't hear me complain, because I did it for a friend; for someone besides myself! You may want to try it some time."

The man stared at me, surprised at my outburst. He blinked a few times and swallowed. "Uh...You...you can keep the window closed."

"Thank you for your consideration," I said briskly and with a tint of sarcasm. I knew in a while I'd feel bad about venting all that I'd been through on this guy, but right now, it just felt good. I leaned back and closed my eyes again, letting myself cool off.

I could feel the man beside me staring at me and I halfway wished there was a curtain I could pull down between the two of us.

I felt a considerable urge to hit something. I guess being sleep deprived, hungry, cold, afraid for your friend's life, and all around grumpy will do that to you.

I opened my eyes and glanced at the man sitting next to me. His round, shocked eyes were still glued on me, pulling a heavy sigh from my lungs.

"My name's MacGyver. Sorry for snapping at you, but I've had a tough couple of days."

"Williams." He held out his hand and when he turned back to look ahead, I heard him whisper quietly, but audibly, "And I noticed..."

I felt a smile slip up despite my mood, but I quickly schooled it and tried to make conversation. "Strange that we ended up on the same flights twice."

"Yeah, well, I fly a lot between Los Angeles and Perth. Normally first class." I heard a hint of bitterness in his tone.

I grasped at the conversation, attempting to distract myself. Worrying about Pete wasn't making the flight go any faster. "What do you have against coach?"

"It's... well..." He looked to be doing some fast thinking. "It's stuffy. I don't like it."

"Oh." I nodded before turning to the window and letting a grin take over. This man had the funniest notions when he wasn't being rude and frustrating.

I could feel Williams glaring at the back of my head. "Look, Mr. MacGyver, I have money and I like to use it. I own a business that spans both Australia and the U.S.A., and I think people ought to know it."

"Mr. Williams, I work for the government. I don't have family and I don't use a lot of money. But I have friends, good friends that I'd risk my own skin for, and I'm sure they'd do the same for me." I paused and carefully drained every drop of strong emotion I could from my voice. I wanted to help him, not make him angry. "Which would you rather have?"

Before he could respond, I stood and walked to the back of the plane to use the restroom, leaving him time to digest my words without feeling a need to react quickly. When I returned to my seat, he didn't say anything or even look at me. Oh well. At least he had heard it now.

I closed my eyes and found, to my surprise-at least, it would have been surprise if I was awake enough to feel it-that I drifted off easily.

When the wheels touched down on the runway, I jerked back awake, instantly ready to get off of the plane. As soon as the Fasten Seat Belts sign flashed off, I unbuckled my seat and stood, waiting for Williams to get up and race down the aisle in a repeat performance. To my surprise, however, he got up slowly and turned to me, holding out his hand in an invitation for a handshake.

I grinned and took his hand in response. Apparently what I had said did make him think.

He stepped back and motioned for me to go out in the aisle in front of him. I smiled and nodded my head gratefully as I grabbed my pack, which I had decided to bring with me on the plane so I could leave quickly, and headed out. When I reached the security guards on the outside of the plane, I pulled out my Phoenix Foundation card to show for quick identification and jogged over to a pay phone to try Pete's house one last time. It was four in the morning, but I disregarded the fact and punched in the numbers.

Still no answer. I bit my lip and thought for a moment. No one would be at the Phoenix Foundation and I had no way to contact Pete's only family, his son. The next best step would be to head to Pete's house and see what I could find.

I walked out to the parking garage where I had left my jeep, climbed in, and deftly drove myself to Pete's. When I reached his house, his car was parked in the driveway. A part of me wanted to take this as good news: I'd walk in and find Pete sitting on his couch, reading the paper with nothing but a few sniffles and an out of order phone.

I approached his door and turned the handle. To my surprise, it opened easily, as if someone was at home... or had left in a hurry.

When I stepped inside, a light was flashing on the message machine. I absentmindedly pressed the button as I glanced around the front room, the avalanche of tissues by the couch telling me exactly where Pete had spent his time. I moved closer as Michael's voice started speaking and was cut off abruptly. Directly after that, Helen's message started playing. "Hi, Pete, it's Helen..." Her voice grew panicked, and as her concern escalated, so did mine.

As Helen's flustered voice played in the background, I focused on the coffee table. Instead of the parallel line from the couch it usually was positioned at, it had been bumped to angle away from the sofa, as if it had been hit...hard. As if someone had collapsed against it.

"Pete." I whispered to myself as I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut. The message ended with no indication that Pete had answered. Helen must have come and found him on the floor.

My fingers twitched to do something helpful, but I couldn't do anything until I figured out where Pete was.

Logically, Helen would take him to a hospital. But which one? I opened my eyes and took two long steps to the phone. After scanning a list of numbers, I found a few reasonably close hospitals and called the first one, asking for a patient named Peter Thornton.

I located him at the third hospital I called and thankfully I already knew where to find it. Dashing out of the house, I leaped back into my Jeep, and because of the early hour, I was able to arrive at the hospital quickly.

I parked in the lot and dug through my pack, which had been deposited in the passenger seat. Wrapped up and protected in a shirt was the antidote...that was if Murdoc had been telling the truth. I bit my lip and rubbed my forehead with my knuckles. If this didn't work…

No. I shook my head firmly. I didn't have time for this. Pete needed me. Now.

I grabbed the vial and marched through the doors. The lady at the desk looked up from a crossword puzzle and gave me a quick scan, searching for the reason I would be at the hospital at this hour. "May I help you?"

"Um, yeah, can I have Pete Thornton's room number?"

"Are you family?" She questioned.

"No, but I'm a close friend and-"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry sir, but I'm afraid that's a breach of patient security. If you come back later in the morning, maybe-"

"No, this is not just a visit! He's been poisoned and I have the cure!"

"I assure you, sir, we are very up-to-date here with our medicines. The doctors know what he needs. Now, I can give you his room phone number and you can call him later..." She typed on the computer.

"Listen, the only number I need is his room number." She continued to peck at the keyboard. I placed my elbows on the counter and put my head in my hands, raking my fingers through my hair. I looked back up. "I don't have time for this. I know what he needs." Shoving off the counter, I stepped back.

I glanced toward the door. Rubbing my jaw, I turned back to face the desk, pausing when I saw the mirror behind the counter.

My eyes flickered to the girl who had assumed I had given up and had gone back to her puzzle. I took a few steps to the side. In the reflection of the glass I could see the computer screen. Scanning the list, I deciphered the backwards spelling of Thornton, Peter and my target: Room 23.

Without hesitation I took off down the hall, ignoring the surprised call of the woman at the desk. Room 9. Room 11. Room 13. As the numbers grew, so did my stride until I was jogging down the corridor. Room 19. Room 21. I turned the corner. Room 23.

My heart thudded as I pushed down the handle and swung open the door, half afraid of what I might find.

The florescent light in the room hummed softly, the sound quiet in comparison to the flurry of present activity. The doctor and a few nurses stood around a bed covered with white linens, hiding the person I had been wanting to see. On my entry, the doctor looked up from his intense conversation with the nurses.

"Excuse me, sir, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. My patient here is very ill and-"

"I'm a friend. He's been poisoned, hasn't he." I didn't ask it, I said it, as much to see if they had been able to discern what was wrong with Pete as hoping he wasn't very sick after all.

"I'm sorry, I can't give you that-"

"For crying out loud! I have the antidote here, and if you'll just drop your obsession with procedure for one minute, Pete will be alright!"

All the nurses and the doctor stared at me in shock, and with none of them any longer bending over Pete, I caught my first glimpse of my long-time friend.

His face was a pasty white and moisture coated his forehead in a dull sheen, the ghostly light from the fixture overhead making him look even paler. Ragged breathing cut through the silence, sometimes synchronized, sometimes not, with the heart monitor that beeped spasmodically and without rhythm.

"You have the cure?" the doctor asked, looking at me with a hint of suspicion in his eyes. That was one way of getting an answer, I suppose.

"Yes, right here." I carefully held out the small tube, handing it to him.

"Miss Stevens, please take this to the lab and have it analyzed." The doctor handed it to a woman wearing a blue surgical mask that covered her features.

"But doctor, if he doesn't-"

He threw her a look and a movement behind the mask indicated that her mouth had closed.

She moved to the door that had closed automatically behind me, but I grabbed her arm before she could take hold of the knob. "You know there's not enough time for that! Just look at him!"

"Please, let go of me."

"Let her go!" the doctor barked, grabbing my arm and jerking my hand off of her. The sudden movement jarred the young woman's arm, causing her to drop the small glass vial. Before I could think, I was reaching down and grabbing desperately for it, hoping it wouldn't shatter on the ground. My hand met with the glass, but instead of catching it, the movement threw it to the side and toward the door. At that moment, the door opened and in stepped Michael. The vial bounced harmlessly against the cloth of his pants and rolled softly to the floor. Before anyone could make another move, I scooped it up.

"Look, this is his only hope! You know it and I know it!"

"It's a danger to the patient! When someone is poisoned, antidotes can also be suspect, especially when presented by a frantic stranger!" The doctor glared at me.

"Doctor, that's my dad, and MacGyver would never do anything to harm him!"

The doctor was silent for a moment as he thought and I saw him glance between Michael and Pete. My own eyes flickered back and forth from the doctor and my friend lying on the bed, breathing raggedly. I fought the urge to just shove the doctor out of the way and give Pete the antidote myself.

Suddenly the machines went wild, the sporadic beep coming much faster, matching the pace of Pete's racing heart. The nurses immediately snapped into action, calling out several different readings while they tested him, attempting to find what was wrong and to reverse it.

I felt my own heart race as I glanced over at Michael. His face held nothing but fear for Pete, his eyes wide as he watched the nurses bustle around his father. I clenched my jaw. Michael would not lose him just because of some rule abiding doctor.

I roughly grabbed the doctor's shoulder and turned him toward me. My abrupt approach made him retreat a step and his back hit the wall. "Listen!" My hand was still gripping the man's coat and my voice was just under a yell. "You're a doctor; it's your job to help people! Now, this boy's father, and my best friend, is lying there dying because you aren't doing your job! I have gone through too much to get this medicine for him for you to just stand there and refuse to use it! Now, are you going to save him or not?"

The doctor blinked bewilderedly at me. He nodded and I released my grip, though I still stood in front of him. I held up the vial in my fingertips and held it up between us. I stepped back as he took it, straightening his coat collar and calling the nurse.

"Put this in his IV." The nurse nodded slowly, pulling out a syringe to withdraw the contents of the vial and gently injected the liquid into the bag.

Michael and I stood watching, hoping that there would be some positive effect. 10 seconds... 20 seconds... 30 seconds... I was growing worried now. What if Murdoc hadn't even had the antidote? If he didn't, what was this?

I bit my lip. A minute passed. Then gradually, so gradually, in fact, that I wasn't sure the difference was really there, the beeping slowed, evening out as it did so.

The breath I hadn't realized I was holding came out in a rush, and I turned to Michael and hugged him tightly. "He's going to be okay, Michael... He'll be alright."


	8. Chapter 8

I knocked softly while slowly opening the door of Pete's hospital room. I peeked around the door to see Pete's eyes closed as he snored quietly. The monitors were still hooked up to him as a precaution, but he was well on his way back to full health.

I paused, considering coming back later, when Pete's snores suddenly stopped and he peered out one eye. Seeing me at the door, he fully opened his eyes and his features changed to appear wide awake as he sat up and smiled. "Oh, it's you, Mac! Come in, come in! Hurry, before those nurses come back to ask me how I'm doing for thousandth time. I was hoping if I pretended to be asleep they'd leave me alone."

I went in, closing the door behind me and then walked over to the uncomfortable chair that was beside his bed to ease myself down into it. "I'd ask you how you're feeling, but I don't think you'd appreciate it." I smiled as I watched Pete mutter about being babied. It was good to see him back to his normal self, no longer pale and unresponsive. I shook away that image and focused on the Pete in front of me.

"So did Michael finally go home?" I asked. Michael hadn't left his dad's side until he was awaken and stable, and after that he kept coming back for frequent visits. I was pretty sure he has stayed in a five-mile radius of the hospital, only leaving to eat since the cafeteria food was mostly rubber products that were lightly seasoned with what I was pretty sure was plaster dust.

"Only when I signed the restraining order." Pete chuckled and shook his head. "No, he said he some project he had to do, though I think he's really just practicing bowling for our game on Friday."

"When are they letting you out of here?"

"They want to keep me over another night for observation or some such ridiculous excuse to empty my wallet. I don't get it; I told them I feel fine again and again, but they still won't let me go home." He put his hand on his forehead and groaned. "Oh, I can just see all the work on my desk that's going undone, piling up until it's overflowing."

"It won't be that bad. Tucker's done fairly well at taking care of things, not to mention Helen bringing you some things that needed signing."

"Yeah, well, there's only so much you can do from a hospital bed."

I laughed. "I suppose so."

"After I get out of here, I'm going right back to work. Call me whatever you want to, but when I have too much time on my hands I go mad."

"Speak for yourself. I'm ready for a nice, long vacation."

"Say, I hear Australia's nice this time of year."

"Very funny."

"MacGyver... Thanks for doing what you did. I know that I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you."

I leaned forward in my chair. "I just did what anyone else would have done."

"No." Pete shook his head, his eyes a little watery as he spoke. "They wouldn't. You would do it for anyone, but not anyone would do what you did."

I smiled. "Thanks, Pete."

He coughed and covered his mouth, looking awkwardly away for a moment. "So, want to come bowling with me and Michael on Friday?"

"Are you kidding, Pete? You know I'm awful at bowling."

He shrugged. "Playing against you is good for my ego."

"Yeah, thanks a lot. I might go, but only as your cheerleader."

"Come on, Mac! We can get one of the lanes with the bumpers!"

"Yeah, but all the people around those lanes are families celebrating parties for eight-year-olds with a group of ten or so kids waiting for their turn to throw the ball."

"When did that make any difference to you?"

I paused, glancing at him as I thought. "You know what? I think I will. Besides, I can play a decent game... with bumpers."

"Good. I look forward to it. Though, this time, don't keep your bowling shoe on with duct tape. Just ask for another shoelace."

"The line was too long and my turn was up next, what did you want me to do?"

"It's called being patient and waiting in line."

"Me, be patient? You were the one who sighed and looked at your watch every time you had to wait for you turn! Besides, I got a high score with my properly secured shoe."

"Sixty-three is your highest score?"

"Hey, I am proud of that score!" I shook my finger teasingly at him.

Pete nodded along, clearly humoring me. "Oh, yeah, sure. A good score. You were so close to beating my 235."

"Ha, ha, ha," I said sarcastically. "Yeah, you may take the bowling trophy, but just wait until we strap on some skates and go play hockey next week, then we'll see."

"Uh, I think I'm busy next week, actually. Lots of meetings."

This time I humored him. "Oh, yeah, sure. Busy. I'm sure it has nothing to do with that fact that the last time we played the score was...oh, what was it now...oh yes, 53...to 1." I raised my eyebrows.

"That one shot was spectacular."

"I was in the bathroom."

"Yeah, and you should have seen me."

I laughed and shook my head. "Pete, you're just an overgrown kid at heart, you know that?"

"Me, overgrown? You're the tall one in the family."

The comment about family struck me, and I found no response ready to come to my lips. It didn't matter anyway, because Pete wasn't finished.

"I think I'm the pet pot-bellied pig."

"Yeah, well, you keep plugging away, Wilbur." I stood slowly. "I've got to get going, I have some stuff I need to do at home, but I just wanted to see how you were doing."

Pete nodded. "Thanks for coming, Mac."

I grinned. "What are friends for?

_Hope you enjoyed the story! It was a blast to write and a bit different from what we normally write. Stay tuned for more stories to come!_


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